The One with the Gerbil in the Pocket
by grannysknitting
Summary: John learns that sticking your hand in your own pocket can have unexpected results


Disclaimer – Characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.

Warning – established relationship (John/Sherlock). Random cute animal. Anderson swears.

**The one with the Gerbil in the Pocket**

Normally, putting your hand into your own coat pocket was not an exercise in the unexpected. People all over the world had been doing it ever since pockets were invented with predictable results – you put your hand in your pocket and either your hand warmed up or you located what you were looking for.

Sometimes you put your hand in your pocket and found something unexpected. If you were lucky it was cash, or the phone charger you thought you'd lost, or a pen. Sometimes it was a tissue (used or unused), old ticket stubs or a note slipped in by a lover.

It was rare to stick your hands in your pocket and find a gerbil. If John's nerves hadn't been accustomed to the unexpected (something he'd achieved through a combination of proximity to Sherlock Holmes, king of the unexpected and sheer bloody mindedness) he would have screamed like a little girl and probably thrown the thing across the crime scene.

As it was, he went very still for a few minutes, got his heart rate (and blood pressure) back down to normal and then pulled said gerbil out to confirm he wasn't hallucinating. It was a fair question, as Sherlock had been known to work with some questionable chemical reactions from time to time and John had been an innocent and unwitting test subject. He still maintained he should be able to walk into his own kitchen without a hazmat suit or breathing apparatus and once Sherlock had realised that John was serious about sleeping apart until an agreement could be made he'd come around.

"What the hell is that?" Donovan shrieked and Houdini hissed at her, the white spot on top of his head glinting in the overhead lights. Sherlock glanced over with an approving expression on his face, but even Houdini couldn't compete with a crime scene that had been staged as a crime scene, complete with tape and forensic markers. The only non authentic part of the scene was the chalk outline – unfortunately even the body was real.

"It's a gerbil," John replied as Lestrade wandered over to see what the fuss was about, "He's a bit of an escape artist. Sorry Greg, he was in my pocket."

Houdini sat up on John's hand and sniffed in Greg's direction, which Sherlock had informed John and Greg was his way of saying hello. While social niceties aimed at Sherlock were brushed aside as 'boring' the thin genius got quite upset if he thought people were being rude to his gerbil. Donovan backed up a couple of steps, distaste clearly written on her face and John pulled his hand closer to his body out of politeness.

"Hello Houdini," Lestrade rolled his eyes, "Back to work Donovan. John… try to keep him from contaminating the crime scene."

"Got a bunny suit to fit him?" John asked with a grin and slipped the gerbil back into his coat pocket. He made a mental note to check his pockets each time he left the flat from now on. Greg snorted and shook his head, turning back to the body posed in the middle of the warehouse.

"Uh, sir, you should come look at this," a forensics tech called and Lestrade jogged off, leaving John with one hand in his coat pocket and the other tucked awkwardly into his sleeve. It was cold in here and he'd forgotten his gloves, hence the whole hands in pocket thing.

"John!" Sherlock called and John stepped carefully through the crime scene, avoiding both the markers left by the murderer and the markers left by the Yard. Sherlock was crouched over the body like some sort of gleeful imp, his eyes sparkling as he took in the details.

"Yes?" John asked, crouching down opposite his lover, careful to tug his coat to the side to avoid squashing Houdini. The body between them was dressed like a 1920 high society girl, off to a cocktail party. The hair, clothing and makeup were meticulous, if somewhat incongruent on a man that appeared to drive lorries for a living.

"What do you make of this?" Sherlock asked and John spent a few minutes examining the corpse without disturbing it.

"Cause of death, asphyxiation. Most likely a bag taped over his head. There are ligature marks on the wrist, showing he was restrained. The makeup, clothes and hair were done after he died," John replied and Sherlock beamed at him. It was his 'you're being clever' expression, the one that made John feel like an idiot.

"Why is Houdini in my pocket?" John asked instead of strangling the gangly twit.

"Maybe he wanted to see us at work," Sherlock suggested quite seriously. John rolled his eyes and got up again, looking around the crime scene. He wouldn't have put it past his lover to sneak the pet into John's pocket as a wind up, but decided that now wasn't the time or place to have that conversation.

"You know, this is familiar," he muttered, "I've seen this before."

"Did you watch that show last week about the East End killings in the 1920's?" Anderson's voice grated over towards them. The head of forensics was fiddling with his camera, doing something with the memory card, "This is a copy of one of the staged scenes in that."

"Oh yes," John frowned, "It was the opening scene, except the body was definitely a woman."

He'd turned it off after five minutes because the show was so trite. Sherlock and Houdini had been in the kitchen, muttering about alkalines and John had read a forensics journal instead.

"So where were you last night, Anderson? Do you have an alibi?" Sherlock asked and Anderson narrowed his eyes, his fingers fumbling the camera. John swallowed a sigh – Sherlock loved to wind Anderson up and with Lestrade in another part of the crime scene there was no referee to stop things getting out of hand. John refused to mediate between the two men on the grounds that one was a master at immature sulking and petty behaviour and he was sleeping with the other one.

"Now look here…" Anderson started, but broke off to juggle the camera in an effort not to drop it. He saved the camera itself but the memory card went flying, falling down a nearby grate.

"Shite," he swore and Sherlock tsked impatiently. John moved out of the field of combat, wondering why it was that Anderson still, after all this time, continued to take the bait every time Sherlock was in a mood to wind him up. It was all a bit tiresome, really.

"Not satisfied with destroying physical evidence, you've moved on to destroying documented evidence as well?" Sherlock teased, getting up with a smug look on his face, "Lestrade! Anderson's being incompetent again!"

John was tempted to mutter 'how can you tell' under his breath but refrained. Of the two of them, he was supposed to be the nice one. Greg shot him a 'what now' look to which John replied with a 'usual stupidity' look and the DI frowned at the two grown men bickering and trading insults. Greg listened for a moment, getting the lay of the land and then folded his arms, annoyance on his face. John could tell he wasn't truly annoyed, it was just his default 'dealing with Sherlock and Anderson' look. They all had one.

"Gentlemen!" Lestrade broke in.

"And he uses the term loosely," John snickered, earning two dirty looks and an eye roll.

"Do we really have to have this argument again?" Lestrade finished, "Just get the memory card out of the drain and get on with it. Sherlock, what have you got?"

While Sherlock started detailing his list of deductions for the DI, Anderson put the camera to one side and tried to lift the grate on the drain. It was one of those open air drains, not too deep, but the grill was too small for a human hand to get in. By the time Sherlock had finished his version of show and tell, Anderson had tried and failed to remove the grate or fish the memory card out with tweezers of forceps from his forensics kit.

"We need that memory card, Anderson," Lestrade sighed, "Any bright ideas?"

"I've got one," Sherlock announced and walked over to plunge his hand into John's pocket. In certain other circumstances this would be a pleasant distraction, but Sherlock didn't linger. His hand came out with Houdini crouched in the palm, the grey coated gerbil sniffing the air avidly and looking around with bright eyes.

"The rat is going to fetch the card?" Anderson scoffed, "What, have you trained it to retrieve on command?"

Sherlock sniffed at him in derision and raised the gerbil to mouth level, whispering in its ear. The action earned him further scoffing from Anderson and a resigned sigh from Lestrade. John didn't bother to voice a protest – of all the embarrassing things Sherlock did in public, speaking to a gerbil barely rated. His lover bent and put Houdini on the floor and they all watched as the gerbil sniffed around and then wriggled his way into the drain, popping back up twenty seconds later with the memory card in his mouth. The genius' pet scampered past its owner and over to Lestrade, who bent down and retrieved the memory card in something of a daze.

"Thank you Houdini," the DI said, "Um… here."

The DI riffled through his own, gerbil free, pockets and came up with a plastic wrapped biscuit from a train platform concession stand. He unwrapped it and broke part off, knowing better than to give the whole thing to the gerbil after a lecture from Sherlock some weeks ago. The DI ate the rest of the biscuit as Sherlock swooped down and collected his pet.

"Well, I think we're done here," the smug tone was par for the course, "Come on John, Houdini."

John offered Lestrade a weary smile and followed in his lover – and gerbils – footsteps.

**End**


End file.
